Of Balls and Vows
by JazzPizza
Summary: Pansy's POV: How she ended up with Goyle as her date to the Yule Ball. Fifth year. GregoryPansy.


   Author's Note: I think I keep writing the date backwards with the numbers, so let's say I edited this June 22, 2003, 'cause with the word I'm less confused. Fixed a few grammatical errors. This isn't the most meaningful thing I've ever written, or anything, but I did write it on a challenge, so hey. Also, it was pretty fun. Go figure.

*******

   I keep my head up high, and refuse to acknowledge their laughter. What am I supposed to say to them? What snide remark could I possibly come back with? "Well, Granger, my date may be stupider, uglier and even physically inferior to yours, but I bet you're not engaged to be married to the Weasel."

   Oh, yeah. That would help. I'm sure they'd stop laughing at me if only I said _that._

   Even I find the fact that I'm Goyle's "girlfriend" a comedic situation. When I stop hysterically screaming to whatever gods there may be to get me out of this arrangement, that is.

   It's a well-known fact that influential wizarding families – pureblood families – arrange the marriages of their children in order to carry on a proud lineage. The Parkinsons are one of these families, of course. My parents promised me, though, that if I was a good girl, and I made them proud, that I would marry the finest young pureblood wizard there was. 

   I was a good girl. I did make them proud. And you know what I told them, anyway? I didn't need one of the several handsome Quidditch stars they wanted me to marry, or one of the young Ministry-employed prodigies that offered me a guaranteed life of comfort – I would settle for Draco Malfoy, I told them. A pureblood, handsome, and the sole heir to the prestigious Malfoy line – but a runt compared to some of the other prospects I could've had.

   My parents promised me Draco. They _promised. Even Draco thought we'd be married – he took me to the Yule Ball last year, trying to begin the public appearances of a relationship so that our marriage later on wouldn't be too unexpected. He started to be nice to me – nicer than he'd ever been, anyway. He smiled once, and I almost melted. His smile could bring a nation to its knees._

   But negotiations fell through. My parents – _my parents, who taught me all I know, and _supposedly_ had the dirt on anyone and everyone and could use it to get anything they wanted – couldn't get their own daughter what _she _wanted. They told me, "The Malfoys already have an arrangement with the Zabini family." They told me, "We've been advised to strike a deal with the Goyles – actually, we're being forced to." They told me, "We have to do what's in the Dark Lord's best interests, honey."_

   _His _best interests? What about mine? This idiot is going to drool all over my robes, I know it! And I've seen him dance. It is _not_ a pretty sight.

   Stupid Gryffindors. They're still looking this way and grinning like maniacs. They have no idea how lucky they are. They don't have to serve anyone's best interests – they get to choose whomever they want.

   They're weird that way, though. Weasley – okay, poor, granted, but still pureblood and gorgeous – is taking Granger to this dance? I mean, come on. She's smart, yeah, but she's a Mudblood! And she's not even some sort of Muggle "millionaire", just some ordinary girl. Come on! Draco's right about that family, I suppose. The Weasleys _are Muggle-loving fools. _

   I see Potter and the young Weasley girl are there together, too. Well, at least the females have some sense. I mean, that guy is _annoying_, but he's rich and pureblooded, all right. Not bad looking, either. I guess if you're a Gryffindor, that's the best you can hope for. There aren't any real brains lurking around in that outfit.

   Oh well. They're all going to die, anyway, if that Dark Lord gets what's in his "best interests" – which shouldn't have anything to do with making me look like an idiot, but do anyway. I guess I'll get the last laugh at their funerals, though.

   Now they're not looking at me, anymore. Someone behind me – oh, Draco's here now, with Blaise. They look dignified and contented together – nothing like I must look with Goyle – and as much as I hate Blaise, I have to admit she looks stunning. Her naturally curly, long black hair is down, spilling over her shoulders, and her olive-green eyes shine as she looks at Draco. They're both wearing a deep violet-colour robe and look like royalty. 

   I glance critically at Goyle. Dull brown curls. Vacant stare. Pale green robes that clash with my own royal blue.

   I heave a gargantuan sigh.

   "Pansy?"

   "Yes, Gregory?" Ick. Do I really have to call him Gregory? Yeah. Duh.

   I hate this.

   "Can we get something to eat now?"

   Great. The rest of my life in a nutshell. Watching him eat. Fantastic.

   "Yeah, fine." If I would've come with Draco – like I should have – I might drag out the entrance longer, for dramatic effect. But as I'm with Goyle, we might as well just sit down and eat. 

   We sit at the Slytherin table and he begins to pile three of everything onto his plate. We've lived together for four years, this being the fifth. I know this is just his first helping.

   That doesn't do much for my appetite.

   "Pansy?"

   "What?" I demand, exasperated.

   "You look beautiful tonight." 

   I can only stare at him in shock. Something more than a grunt from Goyle? Scratch that – an almost eloquent compliment from Goyle?

   He grins. "Didn't think I could handle a sentence at a time, did you?"

   Screw dignity. My jaw will remain where it is on the floor.

   "Honestly?"

   He nods.

   "No."

   He shrugs. "That's what everyone thinks."

   I slide some food onto my plate, lacking an adequate reply. I glance over at the Gryffindor table. Weasley smirks at me. I scowl.

   Goyle notices this. "I could take him, you know."

   I somehow doubt this – the Weasel now having filled out, and seriously built from Quidditch training, not to mention that typical redhead temper – but I say nothing.

   "Seriously. If he's annoying you."

   That's what he meant?

   Okay, Goyle, protective much?

   But some part of me – some strange optimistic part – finds a sort of niceness to this.

   "Thanks, but that won't be necessary, Gregory."

   He smiles slightly. "You can call me Goyle. Everyone does. Even my parents."

   "Okay." I smile back, at least a little bit. And I notice something.

   He looks all right in green.


End file.
